


A Little Stardust Caught

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Communication Failure, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: s04e09 Miller's Crossing, Episode: s04e15 Outcast, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The laptop shows a blank white page, cursor blinking damningly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Stardust Caught

The laptop shows a blank white page, cursor blinking damningly. He could open the email program, with its lots of buttons and options, formatting smaller than the width of the screen so that pictures of Rodney's favorite nebula fills out the edges. But John prefers the masochistic emptiness of an unwritten, empty page with no distractions at all.

It helps reminds him how much he sucks at this.

It's all Rodney's fault. Actually, when he's feeling charitable, he knows that it's _his_ fault for letting Jeanie find out just what her brother had attempted to do on her behalf. It's just easier to blame Rodney. He's so... blameable.

John doesn't regret his terse phone call, the last time he'd been on Earth, since it meant Jeanie stopped sending emails that made Rodney go still and quiet, collapsing in on himself the way a sun does, smaller and smaller until there's practically nothing left.

No, he doesn't regret that at all.

He _does_ regret their bonding afterwards. He likes Jeanie, he really does, but if he has to listen to Rodney gone on and on about how _smart_ his sister is—although not as smart as Rodney—and how if it was McKay and McKay they could probably run the whole department without anyone else at all...

Well. Mostly, he doesn't mind it. Because Jeanie sends him emails, too, full of interesting—read: humiliating—things he can use on Rodney. And, okay, fine, because he gloats a little every time he sees how _happy_ Rodney is. Because he absolutely is. Rodney glows, that same collapsing sun emerging from behind thick, stormy clouds, as he discovers he can still _have_ his sister, and she can be happy. That it isn't one or the other.

And that maybe, just maybe, Rodney likes having her family, too.

But listening to Rodney say "Jeanie said... " and "Jeanie thinks... " and "well, in my last email with Jeanie... " all the time, like a boy with a new crush, is staring to wear on John. He's happy, yeah, but lately he's caught himself wondering if Rodney does it on purpose. If he's taunting John, frustrating him with what he can't have.

He thought he'd been hiding it. But yesterday Rodney had knocked on his door, walking crab-wise into his room—when normally he never knocks, and strides in without thought—stammering hesitantly around a few inane questions—Rodney doesn't stammered with him unless John yells at him, and mostly not even then—before finally managing to ask—Rodney, who is never anything less than honest when it comes to learning—if he's done something to piss John off, lately.

So, here he is. Sitting on his bed, socked feet peeking out beyond his knees, with his laptop warming his lap. A painfully stark page sits before him, still empty, and John's mind is blank.

It shouldn't be so hard. John knows that, and know that this, too, is his fault. He's the one who always made himself so hard to find, who pushed away attempts at communication. He's the one who girded himself with helicopter blades, and melted into the clouds of another galaxy.

It's his fault. It's his job to fix it.

So he should just _fix_ it, already.

Blink, blink, blink, goes the cursor.

 _Hi_ , he writes, then erases it. Ettiquette lessons, never truly forgotten no matter how hard he mentally shoves at them, rise up and his fingers start moving without conscious control.

_Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, USAF  
Altantis, Pegasus Galaxy  
Room 213B, Gate-Tower_

He stops there, making a face he doesn't need a mirror to recognize. Right. Formality doesn't really work when part of your address is a mythical city, in another galaxy.

Also, that'd never get past the SGC. Rodney swears he's found a way to email without them reading, but John doesn't really believe that. Big Brother's watched him all his life; even if he—whichever incarnation of 'he' it might be—isn't there, John can't shake the habit.

_Dave,_

The worst part, John suspects, is that he doesn't know what to say. He wants, with the greediness of a child, to have the same kind of relationship Rodney's finding with his sister. He wants the wonder and the delight, the frustrations that are so rooted in history, in family, layers built up around every emotion until it's practically haloed. He wants to plumb the depths of that ocean.

But the thing of it is, Rodney's always loved his sister. Always. Rodney tries to claim it was an abstract kind of affection, there because she _was_ his sister and it was What You Do.

John knows that's a lie. Rodney loves _Jeanie_ , the girl he remembers and the woman he's learning about. That she's his sister just gives him a reason to look.

John doesn't love. Not really. He likes, and he can be friends with, but after forty years of one fucked up relationship—except Rodney, maybe, but that’s different—after the next, he's pretty sure that he doesn't understand that kind of love. He doesn't know how to do it.

And without that love, there aren't any words.

_I'm not writing because anything's wrong. I don't need money._

For years, John had called home dutifully. Once a year, twice if he had to, and always to his mother. Their conversations had been painfully stilted, formal because that was the only thing they had in common. And every single phone call his father's voice had rung out in the background: _If he's calling because he needs money, you should hang up right now, Alice._

His mother had learned to ignore it and keep on talking. Sometimes that delayed the fight until after he'd said his goodbyes.

Most of the time, it hadn't.

_How's Lauren and the girls? I hope they're doing well._

Abruptly, he shoves the laptop away, slumping down onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Stars glittered there, little pieces of silver he'd found adhered to the ceiling one day. He doesn't know who put them there, although he has guesses. They're Earth constellations, Cassiopeia dancing around Orion's broad bulk, the bears watching careful from their perch not far away. Every constellation, through all the seasons, shines down on him every night.

A few are lopsided and off center. Some are backwards.

He loves them more for it.

"What am I doing," he asks them, voice echoing through his room. "Dave doesn't care. He's probably glad I'm never going to talk to him again."

_"I'm glad you came," Dave says, as he backs up, letting John throw shadows on the cold, stone foyer he'd hated as a child. There are rugs, now, a whirlwind of reds and golds that muffle the unrelenting solemnity of the room. "We should talk."_

"There's nothing for us to talk about. That's the damned _point_. We're nothing alike. We never have been."

Above him, the stars twinkle their agreement.

"We were always so different."

_"You know Lauren, of course." Dave gestures to his wife like John's never met her, never went to their wedding and wondered how bitter, dour Dave attracted a woman who laughed like a child, frequently and without care. She's smiling at him now, staying where she is on the sofa. It's blue, a brilliant blue, and it looks out of place against John's memories. "The kids are upstairs. You'll stay for dinner, right? They'll want to see their Uncle John."_

"I'm not their Uncle John. I'm just some stranger."

The stars agree with him. At his feet, the laptop whirls into save mode, humming as it holds itself ready for his next attempt.

Maybe there shouldn't be another attempt.

Or maybe he should ask Jeanie? She'd like that, he knows, since she's still a little unsure how to treat him. A lot of her emails have the flavor of appeasement, like if she gifts him with the knowledge she'd probably otherwise share, so he won't—he doesn't know what he won't. It probably has something to do with Rodney, though. John's sure they talk about him.

A nasty part of his mind whispers that Rodney used to say _John_ said this, and _John_ thought that.

He tells that part of him to shut the hell up.

It's easy to compose an email to Jeanie. He's done that lots of times, so he doesn't worry about greeting her, or asking about her health, her husband and daughter. He could just write _How do you reach out to someone you've shut the door on so many times? How do I tell him that I want to make it better._

And the question he thinks, but would never ask: _How do I know he wants me to try?_

He'll do anything if it means running, or killing, or risking his own life. All the _doing_ verbs, especially the dangerous ones, have always come easily to him.

Risking words, though, that's different. Those _hurt_ , the way a bullet or a knife never can.

The stars glitter in understanding and just a little bit of reproach. Now that he's figured that out, they seem to say, rich with Teyla's measured voice, perhaps he should do something about it? A risk is never a risk until it is taken.

Sitting back up, John gropes for his laptop. He has to wake it up, the dark screen gradually turning white, that damnable cursor blinking away beneath words that make no sense.

Think like Teyla, John tells himself. Like Ronon, who throws himself in front of anything that's a challenge.

Like Rodney, who's finally learned that sometimes, it's better when things don't work out the way you want them to.

_Dave,_

_I don't know if you want to read this. I'll understand if you don't. I'd like to start emailing you more often, if that's okay_ —the cursor hastily clicks back to the comma— _and have you email me. You can tell me about Karen's ballet recital. That was last week, right? I'd like to see pictures, if you have any._

 _There's a lot I can't tell you. My work's classified, I check email irregularly_ —in his head, John can hear Rodney laughing like a hyena; he tries to do everything he can via email— _and I've always been bad at talking about stuff. But I'd like to try._

_I'd like to listen._

_Everything's okay. I'm not sick, or hurt, and I don't need money. This isn't because something's wrong. Or maybe, something's always been wrong, and I'm just staring to see it now._

John stares at that for a long moment, hating it but unable to erase it. It's the truth, and beyond anything else, he owes Dave the truth. With that in mind, he makes sure to sign it with just his name—

_John_

—with none of the letters and titles he'd buried himself in for so long.

Then, before he can think about it, he clicks send.

* * *

He forgets about it after a few days. Out of sight, out of mind has always worked pretty well for him, particularly with subjects he doesn't want to think about to begin with. He's got enough to do for ten people, and it's easy to just let it go.

He's made the first move. If there's another one, and what kind, is up to Dave.

He likes that better. Waiting is something he's good at.

So he's completely caught off guard when, a week later, his laptop chimes gently at him, a dark blue bar highlighting the email address _DSheppard@gmail.com_.

"Gmail?" Rodney asks, peering over his shoulder. "Really? He doesn't use his business account?"

"Gmail isn’t slumming," John retorts. The mouse hovers over the email. His fingers don't move, though. They can't. "I sent it to his business account."

"Really? Hm, I wonder if he forwards everything."

"Rodney—"

"I can keep up the ridiculous conversation, if you like," Rodney interrupts him. He sounds completely casual, but he's staring at his own laptop and won't look at John. "I can do this for hours, I can even make you angry if that's what you think you want. But you kind of have to tell me, because Jeanie says I'm okay with things like this, once I know what's going on, but you're incredibly hard to read even when you're not being inscrutable about your family, and I don't know what you want."

John knows he didn't tell Rodney about the email. He's absolutely not surprised Rodney knows, though. "Did you read it?"

That provokes a reaction. Rodney's head pops up, mouth swinging downward in pure, horrified shock. "What? No, of course I didn't! I just, um. Saw it. In the queue before it hits the SGC censors. And I... pushed it around them."

"Thanks."

The bed creaks as Rodney sits down next to him, as warm and solid as a mountain, there for John to lean against. "I could play with your hair," he offers. "You tend to stop worrying when I do that."

John glares at him sourly. "Thanks, Rodney."

"What, it's true? Oh, my god, are you worried the _walls_ might hear? Or that somehow Dave will find out, like there are little email gremlins writing down our conversation? It's just us.” Just Rodney, who finds out every little crack and hidden shadow inside John and never leaves. Rodney, who is always surprised when John says _yes_.

Defeated, John tilts his head down so that Rodney can scratch along the back of his scalp, tugging lightly in a way that makes John go boneless every single time. It helps. John is never admitting that aloud, but it really helps.

Which, clearly, Rodney knows since he's being insufferably smug. Fortunately, it's a quiet smug.

Closing his eyes, John taps the 'left' button twice. He waits a moment, hoping Rodney's reaction will fill the silence. It doesn't.

Because Rodney has his head turned away, the closest thing to privacy two men curled around each other can manage.

"Want me to read it to you?" John asks.

"Um. After you read it, first." He glances at John from the corner of his eye, then shrugs. "You made me read Jeanie's email before I read it to you."

"Right. Okay." He doesn't say 'here goes', but he's damn well thinking it.

On a stark white page, dark letters leave no escape.

_John,_

_Karen's recital was great. I was late, of course, but I think they're used to parents trying to sneak in after it starts, so it didn't really get going until almost 11:30. I sent two pictures, and I've got whole albums more. Lauren's uploading on the other computer right now, I think._

_I'm bad at this, too. I always have been. It's good to hear from you._

_Lauren's decided she wants to teach Karen how to ski. Do you remember when Mom took us to Colorado for three weeks, one winter? That's what Lauren wants to do..._

John reads until his voice goes hoarse and the only light comes from the laptop. Dave has a lot to say, which isn't unusual. This time, though, John doesn't feel frustrated at the mountain of words directed his way. After Rodney, it's really more of a small hill than a mountain—and he can see the effort underneath. He can see bits of himself in Dave, struggling to say something _real_ under the gregariousness that Dave had inherited from their father.

That's enough.

"Tell him about your hair turning green," Rodney encourages, watching as paragraphs un-spool on the screen. They're _short_ paragraphs, but still: paragraphs. Multiple, and growing. "Don't look at me like that, you don't have to tell him _how_ it happened."

"If you send him pictures," John warns, darkly, "they will never find the body."

"Please, like this place would survive more than a week without me. Go on, tell him. I already told Jeanie," Rodney taunts, and this time there's nothing subtle or unintentional about it.

"Bastard," John says. "Fine. I'll tell him next time."

"Next time, Miko might dye your hair _purple_ , if you're not careful. Who knew she could hold a grudge like that? But next time is good, too," Rodney says.

Fingers still spreading black virtual ink over the screen, John smiles. "Yeah. It is."


End file.
